Bad Day

Bad Day

With depression some days are better than others. Some days I can get out of bed and function like I am supposed to. I do my chores, go to work, smile, laugh, play with the kids. Some days are worse than others though. Some days it takes everything I have just to roll over enough to check the time, let alone get up and let the demands start. It’s the days in between that I try to focus on. When I can actually write on those bad days it makes me feel better, and it can sometimes be my best work.

06/23/14/Bad Day
Depression, pulling at me
A weight around my neck
As I struggle to tread water

Life, thick and viscous
Not flowing so much as oozing
As time flies by

Hours, dragging and pulling smoke
Into my lazy haze
Before the days drift away in a cloud

Lists, piling ever higher
The refuse of my days
Left over and rotting

Sleep, heavy but fleeting
Dream of better things
All the what-ifs

Joy, orange and conical
Held on a stick
For this stubborn ass

Work, slipping away
The backwards conveyor
Somehow speeding up

Hope, hidden and quiet
I got lost on the count
Too long a lead and it’s gone

Playing With Extended Metaphors and Bouncy Balls

Playing With Extended Metaphors and Bouncy Balls

It has been quite the struggle to find a way of structuring my days so that I can get things done and not feel too guilty about what got left behind. I constantly feel like I’m being told what my priorities should be and it drives me nuts. I started by gathering up all of the papers representing things that I need to do in a day. The instruction sheet for my work articles, the list of cleaning that I need to do, a list of organizational ideas, and more. I even wrote down my exercise plan so I wouldn’t forget to do that in a day. I then paper clipped all of these pages together and started working on the top one. When that one got frustrating or I lost focus, I would move on to the next piece of paper. That’s where the bouncy balls come in. The first couple of days I felt like I couldn’t do a task for more than about five minutes before bouncing to the next one. I was a bouncy ball, because I am not as awesome as Tigger, or a bubble getting ready to pop.

I am a ball
Small and hard,
Bouncing, rebounding, and crashing
Through the house
And my daily lists
Not enough force to
Knock stuff off
But enough to push them
Closer to the edge

Big and orange,
I dribble my way through
Work, paperwork, chores
Launching toward the basket
Of crafts and writing
Just to bounce off the rim
And land in the hands of the opposition

Oblong and brown,
Tucked under one arm I make
My way down the field of
Organization and cleaning
Shouldering through the tasks that
Try to drag me down
Tripping over kids
And landing a yard short

White and stitched,
Held then pitched,
Flying fast into the cleaning mitt
Met with a crafting bat
And sent over the line
Foul ball, no bases and no outs

Black and white
I graze the grass as I fly
From foot to foot down the field
Stopped long enough to aim for the next task
Working to cleaning
Cleaning to kids
Kids to paperwork
Then bounced off of the pole
And sent back across the field

Why can’t I be a golf ball
Small and dimpled,
Struck with long drives towards my goals
And then gently prodded towards the finish
Getting 18 holes in
Before lunch
Despite sand traps and water hazards
To finish my day under par?

The paperclip started annoying me so I eventually wrote a list of categories and things that I need to do in each one so I can keep bouncing. I don’t think that I can stop bouncing at this point. Doing my rotation ensures that at everything that I need to do gets looked at each day. Even if it didn’t get done, it got looked at and maybe worked on. Then when people ask what I did in a day I can list off each category instead of saying “I worked and took care of kids” and hearing that I should have cleaned.
One of my favorite literary devices is the extended metaphor and you can see them a lot in my poetry. Knowing me, this is because someone once told me that I was a genius for using one in a poem. Most of my poetry can be called extended metaphor poems without stretching the definition too much. For me the difficult part is knowing when to stop. In this poem I used bouncy balls, basketballs, footballs, baseballs, soccer balls, and golf balls. I could have kept going with other sports balls or with balls of yarn, rubber bands, balled up clothing, or many more. But I decided to stop before it got too annoying and, I really do hope that you’ve had a ball reading this.

My Journey: 1998 The Angst Continues

My Journey: 1998 The Angst Continues

I’m not going to lie here, this entry was very difficult for me to write and I really thought about giving this project up because of it. I went through thousands of pieces of paper containing hundreds of poems, stories, and ideas in trying to find more of my poetry from this year. I was really trying to find something happy in this sea of sad. I could not find anything. The closest that I found was the poem “Smiley” which starts out almost silly and then seems as though I’m starting to lose touch with reality. I finally told myself that I was fifteen, it was the end of my Freshman year and the beginning of my Sophomore year of high school, and I was so full of teenage angst that it was coming out of my ears.

A smiley is a special thing
My smiley is the only one
Waiting for me to come back
Begging me to have fun
And come away from the Eternal Black
If you knew the real reason
I always wear my smiley
You’d cry too for a season
As I wonder “Why Me?”
Sometimes I know my smiley
Is the only one who truly cares
The only one to stand by me
When I want to slip away unawares
My smiley’s never critical
Never teasing or making fun
Never calling me a radical
Or saying I’m the crazy one
Smiley is my only true friend
Convincing me to endure to the end
Who thought two dots and a line
Could turn away the gun

Dramatic and crazy, just like me. I’ve moved away from the angst and as the years went on I focused those feelings on more existential questions. You can see that in this next poem. I was still focused on the fact that those around me are oblivious to my plight, and still thinking that if they knew how awesome I was that things would be different. I’ll eventually learn that all the popularity in the world won’t cure depression, but not for a decade.

1998/How I Feel
They can’t know how I feel,
When they crush me under heel,
They don’t know how I cry,
Every time that they lie.
I can’t be me,
Because they can’t see,
“Different is good,”
As everyone should.
Sometimes I give into distress,
Needing a friend to break the depress.
Many come bearing a smile,
But few will go the extra mile.
I wish everyone could see,
The strange uniqueness that is me.
How can they do that they do?
Constantly teasing me and you?

Eventually I started having days where even just jotting down a couple of lines about the sinking feeling in my soul was enough to get through the day. Some of the shorter poetry throughout the years that I have been writing are my most poignant, and yet they are almost flukes as I tend to run at the mouth a bit.

Today I have cried
Bitter tears of a sad life
I hurt more and more

There didn’t seem to be an end in sight to the things that I was feeling and it really seemed like no one could possibly understand what I was going through. I kept thinking that if I could just find the right combination of words that people would listen and everything would be fixed. These poems are all I can find from the year 1998, the other years are much more prolific and have a better variety of different moods of poems. I still struggled with teenage angst, and sometimes I think I still do even though I haven’t been a teenager for a very long time.

Captain Stone and the Crew of The Stormrise Pt. 2

Captain Stone and the Crew of The Stormrise Pt. 2

*             *             *

*             *             *

Stone loved the soft melody of Pepper’s voice, these days he didn’t even notice when she switched from English to her native tongue, the Song of the Wisps. It always helped him fall asleep, helped the stress of the day melt away. When they met, he was already too old for bedtime stories, but the others weren’t and so he participated. Now, he wouldn’t know how to sleep without them.

“Ross took one look at the ship and engines and started making a list of supplies he would need to just get started.” Her voice picked up again so Stone tuned back into the story, mildly interested in how else this author interpreted his life story in their fiction.

*             *             *

Stone’s heel clicked against the deck plates outside of his berth once again, barely two hours since he had guided Ross around the ship. He turned to the boy and handed him a few credit chips for parts and started towards the bazaar himself to get food for the galley. He didn’t notice Ross disappear into the crowd, but the look of joy on the kid’s face when he saw The Stormrise made Stone trust him to return with the required parts.

What he didn’t know, however, was where he was going to get the funds to stock the galley. Stone had been bouncing between ships for the last several years as a mercenary and trying to save up for a ship of his own. The capture of his last ship at a different stop accelerated his plans, however, so he didn’t quite have enough. Stone put on the charming smile that got him a deep discount on The Stormrise purchase and strutted through the station.

By the time that Stone had made it to the market, his past as a cutpurse had come in handy several times. Not many unaffiliated stations used anything other than hard currency, but too many visitors were unused to the weight and how to carry it. Stone, for instance, had a series of pockets throughout his armored chest piece and pants as well as a ceramic blade in each boot. Anyone watching him walk and shop would be hard pressed to see where he kept his money.

The first table he came to in the bazaar had something that greatly interested him, but instead of something to purchase it was a Wisp. She (presumably a “she”) was probably about five feet tall with pale, mint green skin. Her leaves were folded back along her head like hair and her lavender petals brushed the floor like a tulip shaped skirt. She was shopping for a wrap, the one on her torso matched her skin, but she was looking at more vibrant patterns at the table.

“This one matches your petals.” Stone said, handing her a wrap that she wouldn’t have been able to see from her side of the table.

“Thank you,” She blushed and nodded, taking the wrap from him and looking at the price tag. Wisp expressions were hard to read, but Stone sensed that she was disappointed.

“My treat.” He insisted, handing credits to the proprietor and draping the wrap around her shoulders. “I would love to have the company as I shop for ship’s rations.”

The Wisp grew darker in what Stone could only describe as a blush and thanked him again, taking his offered arm.

“My name is Stone, Captain Stone.” He said. “What is yours.”

“Unpronounceable to humans.” She laughed. “I keep meaning to take a—how do you say, “nipped-name”—to use, but I cannot think of one.”

“Well, may I call you My Lady for now?”

She seemed to blush again and nodded.

Stone passed up several tables of spices and food oddities before the Wisp stopped and pulled him to a halt as well.

“Do you know how to cook?” She asked him.

“No idea.” He smiled and she mimicked the motion. “I was just going to get dehydrated meals for the crew.”

She paled and shook her head. “That is a horrible thing to do to your crew, your cook should fire you.”

Stone laughed. “I don’t have a cook yet, would you like the job?”

The Wisp shook her head again. “I am a medic, but I do know a little cooking. I will show you some things in exchange for the wrap.”

“Excellent trade!” Stone exclaimed, letting her turn him around to the tables that they had passed.

By the time that Stone and the Wisp had returned to the ship, Stone had purchased a hover cart to carry all of their purchases and managed to have more credits than he had before he hired Ross that morning.

“Captain,” They heard Ross’s voice float around the corner as they entered the berth. “I managed to get everything on the list, but I had to haggle pretty strongly so it might not all work.”

“I am sure that you will figure it out after dinner.” Stone called to him, “Come help us stow all of this food.”

“Us?” Ross asked, popping from behind some crates left by The Stormrise’s last owner. “Oh!”

“Ross, this is our new friend with the unpronounceable name, she will be manning the galley until we can find a cook.”

“I am a medic, and I haven’t accepted your job offer yet.” The Wisp said.

“Nice to meet you.” Ross said, sticking his hand out awkwardly.

“And you.” She said formally, shaking his hand with an equal awkwardness.

“Excellent!” Stone said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get to work.”

The two men got to work storing everything according to her instructions as the Wisp started cooking. Once the food was put away, Ross went back to his parts with a promise to be called when the food was done.

Stone stepped behind the Wisp and put his arms around her, leaning his head against her hair. It was softer than it looked, the leaves covered with a soft fuzz. She smelled like peppermint.

“You are what Earth women call ‘a sly one’, are you not?” The Wisp asked with a curious lilt to her voice.

Stone laughed. “I have been called that before, yes.”

“Wisps and humans are not sexually compatible.”

“I know.” He replied, settling around her more comfortably. “I will admit curiosity, but I just really like holding beautiful women. Besides, you smell like peppermint.”

“I do not know what peppermint is.” The Wisp replied. “I have been studying human biology for some time now and I believe that there are safe ways to satisfy your curiosity if you would care to experiment later.”

“Now who’s the sly one?”

“You, or you would not have approached me in the bazaar.” The Wisp tuned to look at him and lifted up to briefly press her lipless mouth against his. Stone’s lips tingled from the brief touch and the area of her face where his lips had touched were slightly blue now.

“Definitely peppermint.” Stone breathed.

“Then that will be my name.”

*             *             *

Pepper stopped reading when she heard Stone’s breathing pattern change and felt his head grow heavier on her lap. He was asleep now. She briefly wondered how much of that last bit he had actually heard and how much of it would follow him to his dreams. She stayed still, enjoying this contact for as long as she could, but eventually he rolled to his stomach and off her lap.

Pepper slipped off Stone’s pillow and brushed her mouth against his cheek in a kiss before pulling the covers over his shoulders. Her room was accessed through a ceiling ladder from Stone’s room, right up against the radiation shielding from the engine. It was warm there and the lights made it almost feel like home as she curled in a ball and shifted her leaves and petals to the rays to sleep.

*             *             *

*             *             *

Trans Day of Visibility

Trans Day of Visibility

03/30/2017/Gender Dysphoria
I can run in my dreams
Across green meadows
Without a pain
From the weight on my chest

I can hike in my dreams
Up tall mountains
Without the straps
Displacing the mass of breasts

I can rest my elbows in my dreams
Upon my wide-spread knees
Without whispers of immodesty
Because of the hole

I can be intimate in my dreams
With many a lover
Without the worry of freezing up
Because of the lack of a pole

Until the nightmares come
And then I am left screaming
Myself awake in fear
That something was taken from me

Until the night mares come
To show me violent
Potential reasons
Why I have the “wrong” anatomy

Today is Trans Day of Visibility, so it is only fitting that I post a poem about myself. I came out as genderfluid almost four years ago, because I was too afraid to admit, even to myself, that I was trans. Truthfully, it wasn’t until I started researching gender that I realized that transgender was “a thing” because I was raised in a conservative bubble. In that bubble, the only people who were trans were characterized as sexually deviant men in women’s lingerie. This cliché is incredibly damaging to all sorts of people. Not only does it make people like me feel lost and question our sanity, but it also creates a block for cis people to overcome in understanding. Gender is a social construct, sex is biology, neither have only two options. It took me long enough to learn that, that I was suicidal from daily nightmares and the lack of support from those around me. I am much better now that I have come out, to myself and others, and am now on a journey to improve my life instead of end it.

P.S. I crocheted the roses in the pic, that’s why this is posted this evening instead of this morning.

My Writer’s Mind

My Writer’s Mind

Recently, while going through piles of old writings, I found two poems that I had written for a class. Both of these poems were about the main characters in the novels I was working on at the time. I am still working on these novels a page here and a page there while worrying about everything else that life throws my way. The first poem, entitled Daniel, is about an alien in a science fiction story. This alien started out as a strong and invincible version of me for when I wanted to day dream that I was the best, the ultimate, the superhero. As a writer I have evolved since I first created Daniel and he has since evolved to be my best friend. I think I’ll be sad to see him finished and published. As the poem states, I created Daniel in 1993, when I was ten years old; and, he has grown and evolved with me.



Your bat-like wings hide me from

The winds of writers’ block

And your cat-claws protect me from

The nightmares of revision

I am warm and safe

From the chill of deadlines

Against your warrior’s chest

As my fingers absently stroke the blue-black fur of your wings

I feel your tail wrap gently around my foot and ankle

And we talk of old times

Old stories

Before the knowledge of possible plagiarism

Thirteen years we’ve been friends

Lovers of page

And on page

My first

Thirteen years you’ve helped me write

Made me write

Pouring your dedication

To the Gods, the Empire

And the Corps

Into my writing

Of your story

Placing the pen in my hand

When I would rather sleep

Prodding out one last page

Before purring me

To dreams of you


The second poem was about Darren Dragonfound, who has become very close to me since the poem was written. The poem only reflected part of Darren and part of what he means to me as a writer so I revised the poem and made it fit better. I usually like to leave my old poetry as it is so that I can see my poetic voice grow and change over the years; but, this poem was still in revision stages when I put it down 8 years ago. Darren started as my fantasy novel hero. Then my ambitions came along and I wanted to make this novel the opposite of everything that the standard fantasy novel is. No hero, no hero’s journey, no happily ever after…but that proved to be too ambitious so I just started writing. I took the character that was Darren—sarcastic, narcissistic, masochistic, strong, funny, handsome, angry—and started to build a story around that. I wanted to show how an innocent baby could grow up to be all that Darren was in my head. Right now in my head he’s my age—being my alter-ego that makes sense—he’s gone through exaggerated versions of things that I have dealt with, plus a few new ones. Most of the time I torture him to make myself feel better, I show off his strength when I feel weak, and I focus on his talents when I feel useless.



I am not your Hero

Not your Harbinger

Not your Champion

And not your God

I do not fight for you

Your hopes, or your fears,

Or your Gods

I fight to stay alive

I destroy to blow off your steam

To defy the Gods

To send Men into fits of fury

And Elves to their prayers

To let you feel the blood and flame

Rain down and cleanse your anger

I fuck to feel alive

And when you can’t

Thrusting your frustrations

Into all who pass me by

And to steal as many hearts

As the foolish lend me

Destroy as many Temples

And maidens and bars,

As many as you let me

That’s me

Rabble-rouser and Rogue

Lover and Fighter

All the things you cannot be

But wish you were

That’s why you created me

Half-breed and bastard

Fitting in nowhere

Needed everywhere

Chosen by the Gods

And by you

To be this way

So write my story

Record my battles

Rhyme my reasons

But never forget

I am not

Your Hero


Like Daniel, Darren is a comfort to me, but in a different way. Where Daniel holds my hand to write his story, Darren screams his at me until I get it right. Two sides of the same coin and two sides of me as a writer and as a person. I have many other characters now, the main focus of a great many more stories. Some male and some female, some weak and some strong, all different pieces of me, different masks that I have taken off and put on a paper to examine before putting it back on. I may decide that writing poems about all of them is a good project, or I may decide that laying these two out there is enough bare soul for a while.

P.S. Yes, Darren is about to pull Daniel’s tail. He may even be like my oldest kiddo and stick the tail in his mouth because he is watching something interesting. Pretty sure that Daniel is going to retaliate by taking a swipe at Darren with his claws.

Captain Stone and the Crew of The Stormrise Pt. 1

Captain Stone and the Crew of The Stormrise Pt. 1

She waited until he was good and settled, with his head in her lap, before she picked up the reader paper and began. This was their nightly ritual, ever since their first days together. He would work himself to exhaustion trying to provide for the two of them and she made sure that he came home to a warm dinner and a comfortable place to lay his head. The story reading was also part of the ritual and she was getting very good at reading in English.

Captain Stone and the Crew of The Stormrise by d.d. hill.” She started reading.

“Seriously?” He asked, the right side of his mouth drawing up in the way that made hers follow suit.

“Shh.” She cooed, smoothing back his hair with her free hand. “Just listen to the story.”

He exaggerated a sigh and let her pull his patch off his left eye and place it on the stand by the side of the bed.

“Chapter 1.” She continued, switching which hand held the paper so that she could hold his hands on his chest.

“It was just like any other day on the Shipwreck Space Platform, the junked hulls came in and the crews tore them down to the studs. The damaged, but still alive, ships docked in other ports and got repairs and upgrades. What marked this day as special was in the second berth of “D” deck. The berth was rented by a small passenger liner called The Stormrise, and a deal was taking place.”


*             *             *

Stone looked at the ship with a great sense of pride. It was his now, well, his and his crew, once he finds one. His first step is to go find that kid who was selling refurbished junk and get him to refurbish the ship. It wasn’t going anywhere without a good mechanic.

The button on his gauntlet locked both the ship and bay as he left, his boots clicking as they struck the deck plates.

He didn’t have to go far before he found the kid. The homeless section of the station wasn’t far from his berth on purpose. It was cheap for him to rent and the berths were good for short-term work. The kid was sitting on the floor behind one of the emergency door ribs. He was probably around 17 or 18, but looked much younger because of malnutrition. He was deftly taking apart a gauntlet and rewiring it, probably to hack the bio lock. Stone stopped in front of him and waited to be acknowledged.

“Can I help you with something?” The kid said around a tool in his mouth, not looking up.

“Want a job?” Stone asked, half fascinated with the kid’s deft fingers.

“I have a job.” He replied.

“Want a job fixing up the ship that will get you off this station?” Stone clarified.

The kid actually looked up at him at this point. “What ship?”

“The one in Berth 2D. Can you make it fly?”

“I can try, what happens if I don’t?”

“Then you get a room on board and food while you try.”

“Deal.” The kid finished up the gauntlet and put the tools in his pocket. “When do I start?”

“Now.” Stone put his hand out to help the kid up and to shake on the deal. “What’s your name?”

“Ross.” The kid replied, taking Stone’s hand as he stood and slung a pack over this other shoulder. “I will take a look, but no guarantees.”

“Fair enough.” Stone let go of Ross’s hand and turned to guide him to his new home.


*             *             *

“Ross?” Stone asked with a chuckle, moving Pepper’s thumb with his lower lip as he talked. “Wait until Rosie hears about that!”

“Shhh.” Pepper admonished. “She recommended the book to me, just listen.”

“Mmmmhmmm.” Stone smiled, closing his eye again while Pepper took the book back up.

Too Long; Didn’t Read

Too Long; Didn’t Read

Poetry is all about current events and how they make you feel; but, sometimes poetry is about the things that stick with you. A years ago, I was told (repeatedly in the same conversation) that my blog entries and poems were “way too long.” This bugged me, not because of the vague criticism, but because of the repetition. Is my stuff so much “too long” that repeating the criticism six times in a five-minute conversation was necessary? The vagueness does get to me too, but the critic was not trained in literary criticism as I was so I let it slide. I did ask how long was too long. Was the critic expecting a list of limericks or haikus? Or is sonnet length acceptable? In any event, hearing this criticism repeat in my head every time I sat down to do my blog since hearing it has made me want to lash out. Here is my vent.




Too many thoughts in my head,

Long-winded topics and explanations

; I really

Didn’t mean to bore you to death.

Read or don’t read, neither matters.


Too many critics,

Long-faced and blind

; I really

Didn’t write any of this for you to

Read, not comprehend, and then dismiss.


Too bad all you can think to say is how

Long my stuff is

; I really

Didn’t need to hear it 6 times in a row.

Read or don’t read, but don’t repeat that all my stuff is


Too Long; and you Didn’t Read it.


Venting in poetry can help calm me down better than venting at friends. This is mostly because I feel like I am burdening them with my bad mood. Luckily, I have friends who not only listen to my vents with a supportive ear, but who also read my poetry and tell me how awesome I am. Because it doesn’t really matter if it is too long for some people to read. I write my stuff to get it out of my head, to express my feelings, and to revel in the language. If you’d rather not revel with me, then by all means: don’t read it. But don’t read over it and then offer shallow criticism such as that it is too long, that’s actually fairly rude to honest poets and true writers.

My Journey: 1998 The Journey Begins

My Journey: 1998 The Journey Begins

It’s Throwback Thursday so a good time to start The Journey. Read the About page if you would like to know a bit about this category! Starting from the beginning this time, I have decided to choose a couple of poems that show different sides of who I was in 1998. I was 15 and had just started back in public school during my 9th grade year. Prior to that I was homeschooled by my incredibly patient mother, something that I didn’t appreciate until I had kids old enough to get rid of at school for a couple of hours. This year I was trying my best to make friends and do well in school; but, I was socially awkward and only really succeeded at the latter. I did make one friend that first day of school who was my best friend until we graduated and lost track of each other. I was mostly frustrated this year and the depression was starting to eat at the edges. I think that it is most noticeable in the fact that none of my happier poems survive from this year. I will keep looking though.


1998/My Dream

I want to fulfill my dream

I want to soar

I want to fly

Above the stars

In the endless sky


1998/Male Chauvinism

Male Chauvinism is everywhere,

Some oppress and don’t even care.

Women have the same rights as men,

But some say it’s the shame of giving in.

“Women are to serve until they die!”

Is the Chauvinists’ battle cry.

Ours is one of truth and right

“We won’t go quietly into the night!”

The final battlefield is set,

In the home the armies have met.

Who, though, the victor will be,

Is the verdict we soon shall see

Our blood boils as the cry goes out!

“Love With Freedom Or Die Without!”


I wanted to be a pilot all through high school and into college. Some of my classmates found this to be easy fodder for teasing and decided to tell me all the things that I couldn’t do because I am afab. I started to go overboard with my zeal for a lot of things, as though they were the reason I wasn’t happy. It almost worked at times, but was just another mask.

About: My Journey

About: My Journey

In The Beginning…


Two songs keep repeating in my head today, or at least one line from each song. Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” and Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” have both appealed to me at various different times in the last 30+ years and at times I have had one or the other as my personal anthem. Today they are running through my head because as I contemplated which poem(s) to post today I decided that I need to explain a few things.


  • Why I Include The Date In The Poem’s Title: This one is fairly easy to understand and many of you may already know why. When I was in high school one of my poetry teachers, Ms. Smith—seriously, I didn’t change it for anonymity—said that if we dated our poetry we could see how our styles changed through time. So I started dating it all. I even went back and put the year on poems that I had written in the past and didn’t know the exact date.


  • Why I Want To Share My Old Poetry “As Is”: My journey is not always a happy one, in fact, I have clinical depression so at times it is downright miserable. The wonderful experiences in my life taught me a lot and I and grew from each one; however, many times my smile was pasted on as I cried on the inside. The poetry I have written shows this journey from what I would call the beginning until the present. It shows huge gaps where I wrote almost nothing and it shows times when I wrote multiple things a day. It shows how my voice has grown and changed as I have, and it shows what things were floating around in my head as I smiled my way through life.


  • Why Am I Doing This? I know that many of my family and friends are going to read this and wonder why I would put myself out there like this. The answer is fairly simple. As far back as I have written poetry, that I have copies of, I wore masks to hide behind. The Tom-Boy Mask, the Good-Girl Mask, the Rebel Mask, and so on. Some of you knew only one of these masks, some of you knew all, but none of you have seen my naked soul. My poetry is my naked soul. No masks, no lies, honest feelings and words, often penned when I was so angry I broke the lead on the page. Sometimes I wrote through tears that blurred the words in my sight and on the paper. Sometimes I wrote when I was elated or inspired. And sometimes I wrote for school assignments. All of these poems show my true journey and I am tired of all the lies.


  • What Can You Do To Help? Absolutely nothing. I am pulling myself up by the boot straps and climbing off of the end of my rope. This is my journey and if I had “said something sooner” or “just talked to someone” or even “just stopped being sad” then I wouldn’t be the person I am today and I would not have the fortitude to continue past my current road blocks. Telling me that you find inspiration in my journey is ok, sending me a pm about a particular piece that you want to clarify is encouraged, or even just commenting on a post or sharing it on social media can help. Not only will they help my self-esteem, but maybe my words can inspire someone else as so many blogs and stories and poems have inspired me.


What I do not want to happen is all of my family and friends taking things personally and not talking to me about it. I’m not going to name names or point fingers and when I do it will be about things that I have done and not things that have been done to me. I also don’t want to see a lot of comments about how I need to cheer up or things will get better. This is mostly because I’m posting poems that go as far back as 1998 so they don’t reflect the person I am today.


Today I am a wonderful creative transman who takes care of health, hearth, and happiness. I don’t always succeed, but I work hard every day and that really is the point.  And yes, I really do do everything my own way…